A Study in Spare Time
by MunchkinWolf3689
Summary: A collection of one shots taken in between the episodes, when boredom and mayhem strike. Experiments, Cluedo, and general amusement and the occasional hurt. I am mainly just writing this as a side project for my own boredom so it may not be updated regularly.
1. Chapter 1

This one was inspired by a meme which I cannot remember where I found it. I will be taking suggestions and as always love and cherish reviews! I also apologize for any mistakes in terms of British culture, I am not from Britain and although I love British TV shows and literature have never actually visited myself. Not all the science will be possible or correct in these fics, as I am merely writing them for amusement rather than plot.

"What are you doing?" John said loudly, the groggy haze of sleep dissipating with the alertness of a soldier as the golden orange light danced across his features. It was approximately 5 am in the morning and John had been awoken by a muffled "Aha!" and the faint scent of something burning. He had rushed down the stairs with a concerned and curious, "Sherlock? Sherlock!" to be met with an odd and rather confusing sight; Sherlock hunched over a metal cooking bowl and an assortment of materials surrounding him including but not limited to an empty package of Jaffa Cakes, a thermometer, and various laboratory items. Dull flames flickered from the dish as he leaned a little too close for comfort, his curls dangling precariously over the rippling fire.

"Bored." Sherlock said simply, a smile playing on his lips as the fire in the bowl raged a little higher.

John stormed in the kitchen, and found upon further inspection that the contents of the dish was in fact two Jaffa Cakes, now sizzling in the rising flame. Nearby there was a second bowl filled with a thin layer of clear liquid that was covered in a layer of fizzing foam.

"Generally when people are bored they watch the telly, or maybe even actually consider getting an ounce of sleep." John said, his face hard as he viewed the scene, "Have you been up all night?" This much was evident by the fact that Sherlock was still dressed in the neatly trimmed suit he had been wearing the previously day.

"Sleep is boring." Sherlock said vacantly as he turned his attention to the other bowls contents, "-And contrary to inconceivable popular believe rather unhelpful." This fact wasn't entirely true for most people. Then again, John considered, Sherlock seemed to somewhat of an enigma.

John sighed, his mind thanking at least Sherlock's consideration to put his experiment in a bowl, and remembering the holes cheekily grinning at them from the sitting room wall. He must be lowering his standards.

"Is that a Jaffa Cake?" John said suddenly.

Sherlock harrumph, "Brilliant John, I should have assumed that you would be able to observe such a fact when even the most obvious things allude you."

Ignoring the jab at his waistline, John said, "How come it's on fire?"

This question seemed to please Sherlock, "I've been at it for two hours." He said happily, prodding the dying inflamed Jaffa Cake with a fork.

"How exactly is this an experiment exactly?" John said, surrendering to the fact he would not be able to fall asleep again and heading towards the kettle.

Sherlock didn't answer. John took this as one of his _don't be a moron, figure it out_ moments and thought for a minute until he said, "Jaffa Cakes aren't flammable. Did you cover it in something?" Not seeing any other substances in the bowl, John just hoped dearly Sherlock hadn't used anything too explosive.

"No they aren't. Or, to say, they _weren't_." Sherlock said, his smile growing wider and the flames licked higher.

"Why'd you light them then?"

"I wanted to see if I could do it." Sherlock gave the sizzling foamy bowl a sniff before glancing at the clock on the kitchen counter by the door.

"You lit Jaffa Cakes on fire because..." John trailed off, sipping his tea and gripping the edge of the counter top, "How did you do it?"  
Sherlock chuckled, "I honestly didn't think it would work, I even prepared a solution of pure liquid cesium as a backup in case I couldn't make it combust without proper prodding. Though that would be very dull."

"Well the fire seems to be dying down now." John observed, walking over to his chair and sipping again at his mug.

"Sadly." Sherlock agreed with the disappointment of a child who had just finished their last bit of chocolate.

"So is that fizzing stuff the cesium?" John asked distractedly.

"Yes," Sherlock said, frowning, "Though why it is fizzing I am not entirely sure, as I only mixed it with-" He was cut off as the bowl let out a roar and flames burst free from the solution and spit a tongue of fire dangerously close to Sherlock's face, skimming his cheek and causing him to yelp in surprise. The bowl tipped off the table as he jumped backwards and sent a column of flames towards the leg of the table. There was a crackle as whatever caused the solution to react continued to interact with the liquid cesium.

Hearing the noise from the kitchen John slammed his mug down on the side table , spilling some of the dark liquid without care, he stood up swiftly and began his dash towards the fire. John picked up his point from earlier of normal people 'watching telly or sleeping' when they are bored and yelled, " _Normal people_ _ **don't light Jaffa Cakes on fire Sherlock!**_ " He roared with surrendered exasperation and anger.


	2. Chapter 2

Two reviews wow, that makes me way too happy XD. If anyone has anything they want me to write, whether it's a whole plot line or a snippit, please suggest away! It will help me get more ideas and therefore get more content out. This is only my second fanfic and so I am always open to constructive criticism.

Hope you all are having a good day, and if not, kick back and *hopefully* enjoy this overly sappy story that was supposed to be funny but ended up turning very sweet.

~o~

"I absolutely refuse to be _'cheerful'_!" Sherlock spat the word, his face distorting in disgust.

"Sherlock it's Christmas, it's the one time of the year where everyone is in at least a better mood." John coaxed as he strung up the final lights across the mirror of 221B Baker St. Despite the weather giving a particular bite, coupled with a lack of snow that left for a depressing bleak view of a glazed over London, the inside of the two peculiar men's flat was shining with lights and blinking with bright reds and golds. All of this had been John's doing of course, as Sherlock had stubbornly refused to be a part of any of the sentimental nonsense. Not that John really expected anything different, he counted it as a win that he managed to coax- force was a better word for it- Sherlock into at least being present for the small Christmas gathering later in the night.

"Moron's." Sherlock muttered, scratching the vacant spot where his nicotine patch belonged longingly.

"Aren't you the one who shouts about it being Christmas whenever a case shows up?" John smirked as he plopped himself into his chair, the ugly and rather depressing Charlie-Brown-Christmas-Tree slumped a few feet from his shoes.

"Mmm." Sherlock said, curled up in his black leather chair with a look of boredom on his features. It was rather amazing he managed to fit his whole body in the thing, really. His legs pressed to his chest as he lay on his back with his eyes to the ceiling. There hadn't been a case in two days.

"I doubt you got anyone anything?" John said, stretching his limbs like a stocky cat. His warm jumper had a string of tinsel on it he had failed to notice.

"Nope." Sherlock said, stretching himself. Although being much taller than John, and being sideways in his chair, he ended up sliding his upper body over the arm and his head hit the floor with a soft thud. He now lay contorted with his frame in a very loose right angle and all the blood rushing to his head.

John ignored him and instead flicked on the telly. The fluorescent-ish light reflected of the tinsel still strapped annoyingly to John's shoulder, making Sherlock's eyes hurt. Honestly, Sherlock thought the fact that he had become a doctor was a miracle. The two sat in relative silence until the door rang and they heard Hrs. Hudson's customary greetings through the muffled floorboards.

"Be nice." John said, his expression never changing and his eyes still glued to the TV.

"Why?" He was in a foul mood, the idea didn't seem remotely appealing.

"Because it would bloody well ruin my night if you sent another person away in tears, Sherlock."

"Mmm." Sherlock said, also not moving.

"Fine. Because if you don't, I'll tell Mycroft about the cigarette you thought I didn't know you had the other day."

Sherlock stared at him incredulously, "Moving to blackmail are we now John?" John smiled as if he was proud of himself. He would never know that Sherlock had already decided to play nice solely for John's sake.

"You agreed you'd quit." John argued as he finally, _finally_ noticed the tinsel and brushed it off and stood to open the door for Lestrade. The man walked in, his coat having been discarded downstairs and a parcel of brightly wrapped paper clutched in his left hand. His breath smelled every so slightly of the drink, most likely knowing one could not come to a party sober with a downtrodden Sherlock Holmes. This, and it was Christmas.

"John, Sherlock." He greeted, placing the gift down on the coffee table that reflected the warm Christmas lights like the frosting of a frozen over pond. Greg smiled at John and let himself in. The whole flat was particularly warm in demeanor tonight other than the rather frosty Sherlock who had finally sat upright again, his face having peaked at a bright hue of red.

John and Lestrade exchanged chit chat that further bored Sherlock for the next few minutes, and so he tuned them out. His mind filtering through idol deductions and pointless facts about things he observed about the flat across the street that he could partially view through the window.

"You think he's begun ignoring us yet?" Greg asked with a smirk, gladly accepting the amber color liquid encased in a cheap crystal knock off from John.

"Oh yeah." John replied enthusiastically, and the two stared at Sherlock as he sat pensively absent with amusement.

"What you get him?" Lestrade asked.

"Sod off." John smiled.

"Oh, come on he won't hear!" Greg whined.

"Still not telling." John sipped some of his own beverage, hearing the door downstairs open once again. He had that smile on his face again that told Greg he knew something, a vital piece of info, that he would have really liked to know. Over the next thirty minutes a small crowd of people shuffled in; Molly Hooper, Mike Stamford, a few extended family of one of the latter, and finally Ms. Hudson. They all came baring gifts and Ms. Hudson bearing food.

Molly's cousin, who had a shock of muddy brown hair and a overly sharp, acute face, stood out to Sherlock as particularly annoying; He was obviously only visiting from America so he could mooch money off of their elderly grandmother who owned a flat in southern London, given by the faint smell of a bakery lurking off of him. An exclusive cinnamon based cream on the rolls are easy enough to identify. Having been dragged to the party last minute against his will by a specific pathologist, he was dressed rather raggedly for the occasion. It wouldn't do for grandmother to see how his bank account was doing just fine with a quick glance at his attire.

It was honestly a miracle that Sherlock remained 'nice' throughout the whole ordeal. Especially after the third or so round of drinks when someone decided to belt out a loose lipped 'vodka says you can sing' Christmas carol and the others joined in. Or how he did not throw Molly's annoying cousin out the window when he tried to talk to him about London weather for a solid ten minutes. The only meaningful conversations he had were with Molly, who chatted about a biopsy she had done earlier in the day with some particularly interesting viral infection found. A strand that was not contagious, luckily, but could only be caught in South-Africa; This was only odd because the man had no passport and had never left the country.

"Drug smuggler?" Molly mused.

Sherlock squinted, pressing his lips together and tilting his head as he thought, "Mmmm, no. More likely an arms-dealer for the small revolution taking place. Sneaking out of the country while under the pretext of being a hermit. It's easier to travel unnoticed than one may think when you have the right resources, especially if no one finds it suspicious your house has been shut up and silent for weeks, and you have no friends or colleagues who may start nosing about."

Yet this good fortune started to wear as thin as the layer of crisp ice covering London's streets as the drinks got lower and the conversations stupider, especially as he had not touched any of the substances himself, abhorring the way it made his vision blur and mind dull.

"Shall we pass out gifts then?" John said, noticeably more sober than the Lestrade or Molly's cousin... what was his name? Must have been boring and pointless. John grinned and darted off to his upstairs bedroom as Greg giggled at a lame story told by Ms. Hudson and Mike chatted politely with everyone else, telling a story of his own. This left Sherlock to finally have a moment of brilliant freedom from boring conversation but also time to suffocate in his own idleness. _Lestrade's wife was cheating on him again with the doctor, had been using her 'herbal soothers' more often than necessary and had spent the day having lunch with old friends that she dearly missed. Mike Stanford was trying to lose weight by buying a dog that he would be responsible for exercising, but the effort was failing miserably and now the dog was rounder than him. Molly's uncle had a severe addiction with Netflix and had spent the past week watching NCIS, this is the first time he has left his house in three days and nine hours, he likes spicy food and is having an affair with his sisters lover, one that is woefully failing because-_

Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed his head back against the window he had spent the last minute leaning against, his head buzzing out of control. The cool glass helped a little, but it was getting harder and harder to ignore the urge to slip away and wander the abnormally quiet streets. Maybe he would happen to see Harry out there, surely since it was Christmas he could allow Sherlock to access the left underside pocket of his too-short jacket where he kept the little plastic bags tucked safely.

That's when John returned from downstairs with a few brightly shimmering parcels of various sizes clutched in his arms. He smiled at Sherlock and plunked them on the coffee table, the room falling to an anticipatory hush. Without saying anything John clutched the smallest of the boxes, wrapped in casual gold paper, and tossed it to Lestrade, who tipsily managed to catch it.

"You first."

Lestrade unwrapped the little parcel and peered down at it, angling the box so only he could see the contents. It was then he burst into a furious fit of giggles. The laughter must have been infectious, or the alcohol too potent, because a few people joined in despite the fact they had no clue what they were laughing at. Wiping at his eyes Lestrade exclaimed breathlessly, weakly holding up the tiny box, "L-look!."

It was simply a plastic name-tag bearing the neatly printed words, _Hello! My name is: Greg._

He pinned it on- not after pricking himself a few times that is- as the room erupted into genuine laughter.

John smiled, satisfied, "Figured since Sherlock keeps deleting your name you could use it in the rare emergency that he _did_ need to know your name."

Sherlock harrumphed grumpily at this, but John saw the small quirk of his mouth as he glanced at the crackling fire that gave away the fact that he, too, thought it was rather funny. The next round of gifts were generic; Knitted sweaters, gift cards, and only slightly up to par mugs with only slightly amusing sayings on them. That was until John held up a medium sized parcel handsomely wrapped in royal blue, tastefully whgte and blue shimmery sparkled, paper. He walked over to Sherlock with an excited spark to his eyes as he passed it to him.

Sherlock gripped it rather stupidly for a moment, not expecting to be receiving anything. Certainly he wouldn't, it was obvious. Wasn't it? He hadn't gotten anyone anything so they had no social obligation to return the favor. So how could he explain the clumsily wrapped and re-wrapped package in front of him, the producer having spent multiple attempts on getting the blue coating just right- roughly speaking?

"Your supposed to open it." John smiled, getting a few giggles from the staring guests and earning a sour glare that quickly silenced them from Sherlock.

"Obviously." He unwrapped the thing to find a neat little white box, which when opened revealed one of the most perfect violins Sherlock had ever seen. It was an onyx black with an elegantly painted dark blue and white skyline of London. It was high quality wood, too, Sherlock observed. For a moment he just stared.

"I will admit that some of your clients pitched in on the funds side of it, but I got the design custom made." John said, smiling at Sherlock's gobsmacked expression fondly.

"I..." Sherlock started, plucking the perfectly tuned strings experimentally, there was even an accompanying black bow. How had he not noticed that? He notices everything...

"It's very- uh. I'm-"

"Merry Christmas." John saved him from further attempts at voicing gratitute, arms crossed in that stance that said he was observing Sherlock floundering to express emotions he denied having and finding it rather endearing more than anything.

Sherlock smiled, any sign of being moved stoically replace with a more appropriately neutral expression, and immediately began to play the song, 'Hallelujah'. Throwing all the happy Christmas-go-ers a bone for the first time that night. The violin was beautiful, and no one spoke for the duration of the sweet, elegant, and masterfully played song. The moment was cut off by Sherlock thrusting and ripping the bow across the strings in a loud searing scratch reminiscent to the times he was trying to annoy Mycroft right out of the flat. The surrounding reactions where a mixture of jumps and people clutching at their ears and howling dissent.

Sherlock grinned like a madman, "Oh yes, this will do."

John laughed, shaking his head, just happy his gift was received well.

As the party dissipated and the guests hailed cabs, too close to being hammered for safety, Sherlock plucked thoughtfully and silently at his new instrument. He stared vacantly out of the window to 221B Baker street, where the icy claw of winter seemed to be softening as large flakes fell down in a curtain across the city. It was the first time it had snowed in a rather long time that winter, the weather plunging into frigid rather than awarding the populace with the little strokes of perfection that was a good snow storm. The flakes fell thick and peacefully, like shooting stars falling from Heaven.

With the prospect of getting to know his new violin, to memorizing the feel of every edge and curve and the way the notes refracted through the f-holes, Sherlock no longer was bored. A funny feeling sat in his chest as he held the gift, the skyline of his beloved city was masterfully done, including all the necessary landmarks and little details only those who truly loved it could notice. He smiled.

"I thought you didn't care about stuff like that." John said as he joined him beside the window, sipping a mug with soft ribbons drifting from the surface.

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it." Sherlock said, plucking another note, happily he would admit.

The two watched the snow fall as the clock chimed an hour till midnight, and Sherlock found that it wasn't the gift itself that made it...not special, that would be _sentimental_... more like, important. It was the fact that someone cared enough to make it. John cared enough to make it.


End file.
